


The Fox and the Lion

by Mercurie



Category: Troy - Fandom
Genre: 5000-10000 Words, Action/Adventure, Backstory, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-05-20
Updated: 2004-05-19
Packaged: 2017-10-04 11:14:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mercurie/pseuds/Mercurie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sing, O Goddess, of the friendship of Odysseus and Achilles! The lives and loves of two heroes intertwine during the Trojan War.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Grain of Sand

* * *

_The Fox and the Lion_

I: A Grain of Sand

The clash of metal shivered through the air, and sunlight flashed on bronze blades. With a whirl, the warriors separated, their swords cutting whistling paths through the last of the sun's rays. The weapons flickered, meeting and retreating, darting in and away once more, as their wielders' feet danced among the waves on the shore. The intricate pattern of muscle and metal continued without pause or hesitation, neither man slowing or faltering. Yet one of them was clearly the stronger, pressing forward always, while the other gave way. The latter fought shrewdly, but ever on the defensive, expending all his effort to keep his opponent's blade away from his flesh. To any who knew the art of war, the outcome was only too plain; and to those who knew the fighters, it was even plainer.

Before the duel could come to its inevitable end, however, the stronger of the two stepped back suddenly and dropped his blade onto the sand. His companion stood warily, anticipating some trick.

The strong one, now weaponless, gazed at his friend contemplatively before twisting his lips in frustration. "Why are we doing this, Odysseus?"

Odysseus raised his eyebrows in perfect innocence. "When I returned from today's battle, wearied by great and heroic deeds, I sought out my friend Achilles, intending to show him the spoils of the day and the goodly armor I stripped from many a Trojan warrior. When I arrived at your tent, however, you sprang upon me with your sword, demanding that I spar with you. No doubt you were lonely after your long seclusion. Or perhaps eager to remind the Achaeans that you are as skilled at fighting as you are at brooding in your tent?"

The flash of Achilles' eyes indicated that few could make such a remark without dire consequences. He replied gently, however. "You should be a poet, Odysseus…"

"I could," Odysseus replied, leaning lightly upon his sword, "It's a good way to be remembered. The war of the Achaeans and the Trojans would make a marvelous story, full of battles and kings and heroes—like the great Diomedes, Teucer the bowman, the sons of Atreus, Agamemnon and Menelaus, Nestor the wise, Idomeneus the famous spearman, and no less than two Ajaxes!"

"And what would you say of Achilles?"

"Achilles?" Odysseus shrugged dismissively, "He didn't fight much."

The other man's scowl turned to a bark of laughter. "He had no reason to."

Odysseus gazed at his friend silently. If a lion took on human form, it would look like Achilles: fearsome, golden, rippling with muscles, and aloof. Yet there was something distinctly human about him, even pitifully so, as if the animal fierceness disguised a hidden frailty. Most men would laugh at such a conjecture—Achilles, as everyone knew, was a creature born to kill, invulnerable and ruthless. But Odysseus was no more ordinary than Achilles, though his gifts did not manifest themselves outwardly, and he perceived more than most. "They say you are part god," he said wryly, looking out upon the ocean, "They believe it, too. You have the fickleness of an Olympian, if nothing else."

"I am no god!" Achilles growled.

"That is evident."

"What would you have me do?" Achilles snarled, pacing restlessly along the seashore, resplendent in the dying sun's bronze caresses. "I will not bow to Agamemnon! His avarice brought us here. Men die every day at his behest. I, for one, will not be a slave to his greed!"

"Then even more men will die for your pride. Why feign indignation? You knew the reason for this war when we set sail. No one forced you to come. You wanted glory—well, you're not winning much by sitting on the outskirts of the battle."

Achilles halted and directed a steely glare at the tents lining the beach, interspersed with newly-lit fires and piles of plunder. Men's voices and captives' cries made a low murmur that melded with the patient voice of the sea. After a moment, he snorted and resumed his pacing.

"It's about this girl…" Odysseus observed, watching a small wave spill over his foot.

"Briseis." Achilles' voice was flat.

"Yes, Briseis. A good name. But is she worth the lost glory? Is she worth the men's lives? Are you content to have people say a woman was more important to you than battle, more important even than your allegiances and oaths?"

"Would Penelope be worth it to you?" Achilles countered.

At this, Odysseus fell silent, staring westwards over the Aegean. Somewhere there, between the beach and the setting sun, lay Ithaca and Penelope, whom he had left for Agamemnon's war. The chariot of the sun laid a golden path over the water, beckoning him home. He had not wanted to come to Troy—the gods knew the measures he had taken to avoid it! Yet here he was, and he felt in his heart it would be long before he saw his wife again. The immortals played with men. But Odysseus was not one to let his thoughts show, and his bitterness remained hidden with the rest of them.

"She is not your wife," he replied in answer to the question, "only a captive."

"She is mine," Achilles said fiercely, "and the Achaeans will fall under Hector's blade until I have her back."

"You've become soft-hearted," Odysseus said with a wry half-grin.

Achilles made no immediate reply. The last sliver of sun sank beneath the horizon, its golden light extinguished. Darkness flooded the Achaean camp, rolling over the waves. Only starlight remained, otherworldly and faintly silver, lending the landscape a ghostly dignity. The campfires seemed brazen and feeble in the face of the night.

"Look!" Achilles said suddenly, flinging his arm out towards the camp, "Look at them, Odysseus. They are nothing! Sparks! Puny, flickering, pale, little sparks. Even the stars outshine them. That is what _we_ are—tiny lights in the great night, doomed to be extinguished all too soon. We are the leaves that wither, raindrops that fall and are lost. Our names are written in the sand only to be washed away by the next wave. We have little and can expect less. When something is given us, something true and with meaning—should we not take it while we can? There is no tomorrow. We have only this moment to live. I will not waste it."

"I have not asked you to," Odysseus said softly. He hesitated, then continued. "And if the girl is returned to you… you will rejoin the battle?"

"Perhaps. But if Agamemnon does not give her back, I will leave him at Hector's mercy, and laugh when he falls."

"I spoke to him today." Odysseus ignored Achilles' sharp look. "He… apologizes. The girl is yours, if you want her." He fell silent.

"There is more," Achilles said suspiciously, "Well?"

A moment of uncomfortable silence reigned. "He gave her to the men," Odysseus said at last.

Achilles muttered a curse and broke into a run without a glance back at his companion. Odysseus watched him go, the starlight glinting on his golden hair. He hoped, for the men's sake, that none of them had touched the girl Briseis. But he did not follow, remaining instead by the darkened shore.

"Well, goddess, I did my best," he said to the murmuring waves. They made no reply, but he knew, if Achilles did not, that the immortals were there and watching. Life might be short, but Hades awaited men, and glory those who earned it. Odysseus did not care much for glory or renown. Still, he was not fool enough to deny the gods what they wanted. Athena had sent him here, and he would do her bidding as long as he must. If that kept him from Penelope… he looked once more westwards, over the sea. She was there, too far away. He would not go to her. His deeds here would keep her safe, from Agamemnon's army, from the gods, from fate. Sometimes a man had to obey to serve his people best.

Turning from the water, Odysseus walked slowly up the beach to the tents. Achilles would have found his woman by now. For a moment, he regretted having attempted to persuade his friend to give up Briseis. If Achilles had found something to live for—something besides killing—Odysseus was happy for him. The moment passed quickly. Achilles needed no pity; he deserved none. He, like every other man, was but a grain of sand upon the beach, and the gods would have their way with him.

* * *


	2. A Cup of Wine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: _Troy_ and the _Iliad_ do not belong to me.

* * *

_The Fox and the Lion_

II: A Cup of Wine

"I thought you were a dumb brute."

She was not the first to think so, but when the words fell from her lips they gained in weight and importance as if Zeus himself had sanctioned them. No man who insulted Achilles had ever lived long, yet before this small attack he steeled himself as before a line of advancing spears.

"I could have forgiven a dumb brute…"

Achilles rose and strode to the entrance, brushing aside the hangings slightly to look out into the night. Briseis was quiet. He allowed her privacy to wash the blood and filth from her skin, if not her memory. She had cause to be angry. Achilles understood rage – he was only too familiar with it. It had been both friend and enemy to him all the years of his life.

The night air was mild, but fraught with breezes. He could barely see the ocean waves, dark under the starlight. No doubt Odysseus had returned to his tent. He kept no captives, Odysseus; all his plunder consisted of armor, swords, spears, knives, and the occasional trinket. Achilles had never bothered to wonder about this before—he, for one, amused himself with captive women as he saw fit. Now, listening to the nearly inaudible sounds of Briseis behind him, it dawned on him that he, too, had lost interest in other women, and turned down the ones offered him. He was shrewd enough to understand why, and wondered what Odysseus would say if he knew.

Achilles had met Penelope, Odysseus' wife, only once, but that occasion was enough to give him a rare taste of envy. The memory always created a ball of confusion and discomfort in his gut. He prodded it carefully, wary of this internal enemy. It was one of the many he carried, secret and painful, as if to make up for his lack of physical wounds.

It had been several years ago, on a visit to Ithaca. Odysseus was the best of hosts, careful always of his honor. He held a banquet for his guest in the great hall of his home. A long table stretched the length of the room, warmly lit by torches and sweetened by the smell of incense. Odysseus sat at the head, with Achilles upon his right and Penelope on his left. They feasted on every kind of meat and wine, fruit and fish and sweet delicacies, accompanied by music and talk. Most of the conversation was roughly and manly, dwelling on recent battles and hunts, fine weapons, and irreverent politics. Achilles remembered it well, and his own words too clearly.

"A man's blood is no different than a pig's," he had said, his tongued loosened by heady wine, "And the former is easier to kill!" There was laughter at this, most of it as drunken as he. Odysseus wore his half-smile and the sparkle in his eyes was as malicious at it was amused.

"And what of woman?" he asked sardonically, "Is her blood the same as a wild pig's? Could you spill it as easily, brave Achilles?"

Achilles leaned closer to his friend, speaking in a stage whisper. "I have a special spear for women. But they only bleed once!"

The company laughed again, all save Odysseus, whom Achilles had never seen laugh aloud—only smile, with that strange, mocking twist of his lip. As he laughed, Achilles' eye had fallen on Penelope, seated in demure silence beyond her husband, and his mirth had shuddered and died.

Penelope had been a princess of Sparta, and the heritage revealed itself in her bearing. She was not tall, but she gave an impression of strength and competence. Her hair was black and curly, her face lightly freckled, her eyes a bright blue. She had white, agile hands and small shoulders. Her gaze was steady without being challenging. Achilles was not a man to pay attention other men's wives, and he had not noticed her before. Now, faced with her calm eyes, his boastful words suddenly felt hollow and childish.

Feeling his gaze, she smiled gracefully. "Would you care for more wine?" She filled his cup without waiting for an answer, and he took it without thanks.

The moment passed and the feast continued, but the exultation had left his heart. He brooded over his wine, listening to other men's jokes and tales as the night whiled away. No weapon had ever touched Achilles, and he did not recognize the sting of a wound dealt from such an unlikely quarter. He knew only that his mood had turned black. He felt slighted, but had no one to blame. He thought of Penelope's eyes.

The celebration wound down to its end, and the feasters began to depart. Achilles ignored the farewells, the blessings, the offers to show him to his room. Lost in dark meanderings of temper, he did not come to himself until only Odysseus remained at the table. The light was low and his spirits lower. He did not want to talk.

"What ails you, friend?" Odysseus asked, "Too much wine?"

The cup was still in Achilles' hand, empty save for the dregs. Red stained the table and his fingers. With a convulsion of disgust, he hurled the vessel to the floor. Realizing what he had done, he turned to his host, but the look in Odysseus' eyes stayed the apology that would never have come, anyway.

"Too much wine," Achilles muttered, "How long have I been drinking the dregs?"

"Since my wife filled your cup."

"I never thanked her."

"She did not expect you to." Odysseus rubbed the back of his neck, stretching as if to relieve the tension of the night. He fiddled idly with his knife, watching the torchlight glint upon its edge. "I am a lucky man," he said contemplatively, "I am king over a good people. I have a good woman. Agamemnon presses me, but not so much that I cannot deal with him. I am neither too young nor too old. My teeth are healthy."

Achilles shot a glance at him before expelling a soft, self-deprecating laugh. He drew his hands over his face, brushing away tangled strands of golden hair. "I wish I had your humor," he said, voice muffled behind his fingers.

"Now that you cannot win from me in single combat…!"

"I do not aim to," Achilles said, turning suddenly, almost violently to look his companion in the eye, "Not from you, old friend. Nothing will ever make me fight you. Your life, your home, your wine, your women, your people—they are safe from me. However the alliances of the Achaeans may change in the future, remember this: I will never be your enemy."

"Then I can sleep easy tonight!" Odysseus joked, "As will you, if we ever manage to leave this table…"

Achilles had not slept easily that night. He had lain awake, thinking of vows of friendship, and wine, and Penelope. Now, on the eastern shores of the Aegean, before the walls of Troy, the memory returned to him, summoned by a priestess of Apollo.

He let the door hanging fall and turned back to the woman. Briseis had cleaned the blood and dirt from her face. He could not tell if she had eaten; he hoped so. She sat in the corner, watching him with her huge, liquid eyes. Briseis looked nothing like Penelope; her soft skin and child-like beauty gave an impression of innocence far removed from the Spartan princess' mature beauty. But their eyes shared the same calm confidence, an aura of wisdom unsullied by fear. It was this, Achilles thought, that kept him from touching Briseis. He had no compunctions about taking women against their will (usually they did not remain unwilling for long), but he suspected no one could take anything from Briseis that she did not give voluntarily. And he was enamored of her, of that deceptive softness, of a power so different from his and yet no less potent.

He had never approached Penelope, never, in fact, spoken to her again. But he could not forget the feeling her eyes had instilled in him—the feeling that not everything could be won by the sword, not everything could be conquered with force. For all his prowess, he had been a drunken lout, put to shame by her dignity. The men he had killed, the weapons he owned, could not make him her equal. He remembered this, certain that some day he would need it. The day had come—here was Briseis, and he wanted her more than he had ever wanted anything. And all his accomplishments were useless. Boasts and wine and weapons were useless. He would have to find something within him better than that. He, Achilles, would have to use his mind—and his heart.

He wondered if the gods were watching after all, and playing tricks on him.

"You do not need to fear me," he said to Briseis, knowing that she did not. "I am not your enemy." With that, he doused the light, stripped, and fell into his bed. He lay awake, listening to the stillness, trying to discern within it the sound of his fate.

* * *


	3. A Sword of Bronze

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: _Troy_ and the _Iliad_ do not belong to me.

* * *

_The Fox and the Lion_

Chapter III: A Sword of Bronze

A ball of flame hurtled past Odysseus, setting his bronze sword alight with golden fire. The burning missile tore into a warrior's hut, spewing fire at those too slow to evade its path. Men screamed; the night blazed with the fury of Hector and the Trojans. The scattered huts were ill-suited to withstand direct assault. In fact, their distribution seemed to make them easy targets. Odysseus cursed Agamemnon's arrogance and admired Hector's daring with the same breath.

He leaped aside as another ball of fire tore through the ranks of running, desperate men. They had awakened to the fury of the gods. Sleepy, disoriented, caught off guard, they spilled into the night, only to be slaughtered by fire and arrows. The lines had not even met, and already the Achaean casualties littered the ground like so much driftwood, ready for the pyre.

Sweat stung Odysseus' eyes and shone on his arms as he crouched, sword in hand, shield on arm, peering from underneath his helmet. The ranks had begun to form, not in orderly lines, but as clumps of friends and relatives charging at the Trojans and howling for their honor. He must be among the first.

"Ithacans!" he roared, thrusting his blade toward the sky as a signal. Fire flickered down its shaft, pooling on the hilt and encapsulating his hand in a halo of war. Men crowded towards him. He did not know whether they were his own or not.

"To the fore!" The sword sliced through the air, and warriors leaped forward, incoherent battle-cries on their lips, exploding from their hoarse and seared throats. Their feet pounded on the sand, legs straining to carry them into the lottery of death. Odysseus led them, hurtling into a storm of black night, red blood, and golden fire. They cleared the small rise, meeting the Trojans on higher ground. Shields clashed and spears lodged in living flesh. Screams rose, singing a cacophony of rage and pain. Odysseus opened his mouth and. . . .

_. . . "It is inopportune," Penelope said, forestalling him. "The crops are bad this year and there is a pestilence. The people need their king."_

_"But they do not need a war," he said, though he knew she was right. _

_"No," she agreed, softly, sitting in the window and brushing her dark hair. The sunlight streamed inside, silhouetting her slight figure. A light Ithacan breeze toyed with her curls. _

_"If I do not go to Agamemnon's war, he will bring one to me," Odysseus said darkly, watching his wife from the bed. _

_"True, husband," she agreed. She was circumspect, but he could hear the underlying emotion in her voice, surging like the river _ _Styx_ _, final and implacable. The wind's sigh was less mournful than the sorrow she kept hidden. "The crops will wither in your absence, and your son will grow to manhood without a father. Agamemnon will destroy them both if you do not agree to fight for him. All for the sake of my too-beautiful cousin! If only he could be convinced to let you stay. . . . If he did not want you to go. . . ."_

_Odysseus barked a grim laugh. "He would leave me behind only if I were dead or mad." _

_His wife turned her fathomless, blue gaze on him. Her eyes, bright without tears, shone with wisdom, love, and . . . expectation. A flicker of amusement stirred in their depths, and suddenly he knew. _

_His lip twitched in a half-smile. "I love you," he told her gleefully, springing to his feet. "Bring me a tunic!" he called to the servant waiting outside the door, "An old one! Filthy! Ragged! And some mud!" The man stared, but one look sent him running to do his master's bidding. _

_Odysseus turned back to Penelope. "The gods saw fit to bless me with a woman of my own mind," he teased, "Forgive my abrupt exit, my dear—I must see to the crops!"_

_Her laughter followed him out of the bedchamber. . . . _

. . . . Ringing in his ears. Odysseus shook his head, attempting to clear it of confusion. A sword had grazed his helm, stunning him for a dangerous moment. His opponent swung once more, intending to finish the duel, but Odysseus ducked and thrust his blade into the man's abdomen. It happened too quickly for thought, and already he was facing a new adversary.

The battle raged. He did not know where his men were; all was darkness and confusion. Sweating bodies clashed and fell around him. He wove his way through the surging mass, clinging tenaciously to his composure, to life. One emotional mistake meant death, and the king of Ithaca intended to survive this foolish war.

Even through the turmoil of the battle, Odysseus could tell the Achaeans were not faring well. The Trojans had driven them back to their camp. Too many had fallen. Apollo was angry, and without Achilles, Agamemnon's force had lost its initiative.

"Achilles!"

Odysseus snapped around to follow the cry. Had the gods heard his thoughts? Had Achilles been unable to resist the temptation of battle?

More men took up the call, until three syllables thundered from the throat of every Achaean on the field. The Trojans faltered, uncertain, searching for the fearsome warrior whom no weapon could touch.

Finally, Odysseus' eyes found him. A tall man with muscles like bands of steel, he wore his famed helmet and armor. His feet flew as if they bore wings, and a tide of men rallied behind him. He might have been a living incarnation of Mars, his body sheathed in exquisite bronze. The metal flashed in the light of still-burning fires. . . .

_. . . . as Odysseus arranged it carefully. The stone courtyard of Lycomedes' hold was lit even by night, though dimly. He thanked Athena for the shadows, which hid his face as the disguise did his body. _

_A small flock of veiled maidens edged nearer the table where he had laid out his goods. A peddler's selection, it consisted mainly of trinkets: earrings, necklaces, rings, needles, cloth, household utensils. On his left rested a small pile of daggers and a sword, left there haphazardly, as if by chance—as if he expected no one to show an interest in them._

_"Come, good maidens," he said ingratiatingly, bobbing his head in the manner of a typical peddler. "Look to your heart's content! Dyed cloth from _ _Thessaly_ _! Parchment from _ _Egypt_ _! Silver from _ _Athens_ _! Rings from _ _Thrace_ _! Bargains on everything!"_

_The women crowded to the table, murmuring in pleasure and excitement. They hovered about the jewelry, exclaiming over the necklaces and bracelets, the hair ornaments and anklets. The more practical ones examined the cloth, testing its quality, or mulled over the selection of needles and spindles. Only one seemed immune to the siren call of domestic pleasures. She stood by the weaponry at the end of the table, fingering the bronze sword._

_"Excellent choice," Odysseus said, approaching her warily. "You have a unique taste, I see." _

_Familiar eyes gazed at him over the veil, at first startled, then brimming with recognition and laughter. _

_"When did you take up peddling, king of _ _Ithaca_ _?" _

_"The same day you became an Amazon, Achilles!" _

_The young warrior tore off his veil, revealing a boyish grin. "You've caught me, Odysseus. What shall I do?" _

_Odysseus' humor faded, replaced by heavy earnestness. "Come with me to _ _Troy_ _, my friend. . . ."_

. . . but this was not Achilles, Odysseus realized with a squirm of horror. The likeness was almost perfect, yes, but something in the stance, in the way the hand gripped the sword, was—different. He watched the unknown warrior break into the Trojan ranks, the whole of the Achaean army cheering at his back and charging anew into the slaughter. No, not Achilles. Patroclus, the foolish boy! Even from a distance, he recognized the slightly gangly stride. Why did no one else see it?

Odysseus fought his way to the knot of men surrounding Patroclus. The truth was on his lips. He must unmask the child before a Trojan killed him. The sight of "Achilles'" death would shatter the Achaeans, and Patroclus' slaughter would drive the real Achilles into an immeasurable rage.

But by the time he arrived at the center of the battle, Patroclus and Hector were already engaged in a duel, and the two armies had drawn off to watch. They formed a circle around the combatants, intent on the clash of the greatest warriors of their lifetime: Hector of Troy and Achilles of Phthia. Ballads would be sung of this meeting for generations. Enemies forgot their disputes, pushed and maneuvered and craned their necks to catch a glimpse of the making of a legend.

The cry of denunciation burned on Odysseus' conscience, but no sound escaped his throat. Patroclus would die, there was no question. Upon learning of his cousin's death, Achilles would fly into a blind rage against Hector. Whatever anyone else thought, Odysseus knew how that battle must end. No living man could best Achilles; only a god could achieve that feat. Achilles' sword would drink Hector's blood, and the Trojan army would fall to pieces. . . .

He watched the fight, silent still, weighing the options, teetering. Patroclus was flagging. He was only a child. . . .

_. . . but Odysseus loved Telemachus with all the fierceness of a father for his only son. The sun beat upon his back; the bare field stretched behind him, sown with salt. His back ached from the hours of hard work at the plow. His hand curled around the leather halter of the ox seemed to have frozen in place. Man and beast trudged on, the dry soil crunching beneath their feet. _

_"King Odysseus?" the messenger asked, holding the infant Telemachus in his arms. "I have delivered King Agamemnon's command. What is your reply?"_

_"Four hundred and twenty seven, four hundred and twenty eight," Odysseus counted, dropping individual grains of salt onto the field, "four hundred and twenty nine, four hundred and thirty. . . . and the gods send us rain!" He spat upon the scattered grains, raised his arms to the sky, and proclaimed in a ringing voice, "Grant me a good crop, Demeter, and I will sacrifice a rat and a broken ladle at your altar!" He trundled on, his voice rising and falling as he muttered. _

_"Are you really so mad, king?" the messenger said, stepping closer. "Sow on, then!" And he laid Odysseus' baby son before the blade of the plow._

_Telemachus_ _!_

_Odysseus wrenched at the halter, turning the beast aside a bare moment before the plow would have taken the life of his son. The ox lowed, irritated at the sudden change of direction. Odysseus ignored it, falling to his knees and gathering up his squalling child. All traces of madness had vanished. He looked up at Agamemnon's messenger and bared his teeth in a grimace of defeat. _

_"Very well," he said coldly, "Tell Agamemnon I will go to war for him. But tell him also this: the sorrow he brings upon others will return to him tenfold!"_

_The messenger did not reply, stricken, perhaps, with the same foreboding that shadowed Odysseus' heart. _

_He held the crying babe to his breast, whispering, "For you, my child, I will sacrifice my own happiness, I will fight. . . ."_

. . . Odysseus did not intervene as Patroclus fought. He did not intervene when the boy grew sloppy and bungled a stab. He did not intervene when Hector's bronze sword slashed the child's throat, but only partly. He stood and watched the death agony. He heard the breath rattle in Patroclus' throat, saw the blood oozing from the wound and the pain, the horrible fear in his eyes. He averted his gaze, making no move.

He had sacrificed his happiness, his kingdom, his wife and child, to fight for Agamemnon. Now Patroclus sacrificed his life to the same cause.

Odysseus turned away as the boy breathed his last. Instead of the choking gasp of death, he seemed to hear Achilles' bellows of anger. Patroclus was dead, and the Achaeans had won the war.


	4. A Heart of Dust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: _Troy_ is not mine.

* * *

  
_The Fox and the Lion_

IV: A Heart of Dust

"_Hectooooorrrrrr__!_"

Salt blurred his vision, but Achilles blinked away the stinging tears, unashamed. Shame found no place in his heart, nor ever would again: that beating, aching vessel was claimed and consumed by anger alone. Rage had seared through him until he felt it had burned away all his excess emotions, stripping him to a vessel existing only to house it. That tempestuous anger dwarfed even sorrow. As for love, a mere shadow of it remained, driven into hiding by more violent humors. Unburdened by surplus feeling, he might have floated away in the Trojan wind, had anger not weighed on him like Sisyphus' stone. A tiny part of him remembered Briseis' wails as he vaulted into his chariot, but his own murderous screams drowned them out.

"_Hectooooorrrrr__!"_

The walls trembled before his fury. The earth shivered beneath his feet, coughing dust. The great expanse of the Trojan plain stretched out behind him, no more desolate than his heart. The sky hovered blindingly overheard. He hoped the gods were watching. He wanted Apollo to watch the humiliation of Priam's son, favorite of the gods, the _champion_ of Troy. Hector, who had murdered Patroclus. It was not the dead boy's youth that drove Achilles to such a rage, nor the kinship between them. It was the simple fact that Patroclus had been _his_, under his protection and honored by his love. Hector had stolen something dear to Achilles, and, like a thief, Hector would pay.

"_Hectooooooorrr__!"_

He did not care that the doomed man's family watched from the city walls. He did not care that the outcome of the duel was predetermined. He cared least of all that his own death had been predicted, his shade fated to follow Hector's to Hades. Vengeance waited for him, and he would sink his teeth into it like a lion.

His horses snorted nervously as the minutes dragged. Hector came slowly, craven as his brother. Achilles laughed in his head. No doubt the weak-willed people of Troy were wailing over their hero, knowing him dead even now. Let them weep! When the city was taken, their tears would provide the salt that would sterilize their own land. He would watch them from the underworld, and know it was his doing. History would remember him: the man who brought down Troy. Odysseus would compose his poem on the heroes of the greatest war in all the ages, and Achilles would stand foremost among them.

His anger cooled and crystallized. Odysseus would write no odes in honor of Achilles. The Ithacan had come to his tent, behind the bier of Patroclus. They had spoken angrily.

"Why did you not stop him?" Achilles had sobbed. The servants had fled, cowed before his madness. Only one lamp remained alight; the others, overturned, had been extinguished in his fury. In a frenzy, he had trampled on the spoils of war, crushed the prized armor with his bare hands, broken spears and arrows to kindling. He hated them all, useless things which had not saved Patroclus' life. "Why?" Achilles repeated wildly.

Odysseus, unmoved, stood his ground. Wariness sat on his brow, but he gave no other sign of agitation. He was familiar with Achilles' tantrums, and though the guilt for this one rested partly on his own shoulders, he did not let the knowledge disturb him. "I did not know of this beforehand."

Achilles paused and rounded on him, face contorted. "You did not? _You_? You who know of all things afoot in the Achaean camp, and like the Trojan one as well? This, then, was the one and only secret you could not uncover?"

"It is no use blaming the boy's death on me," Odysseus said sharply, "Your own obstinacy has killed him. Had you not been too proud to fight, he would not have been driven to."

Lethal ire flamed in Achilles' eyes, and he spoke through gritted teeth. "I shall tear out your clever little tongue for those words."

"Hold, O Achilles!" Odysseus said, deftly evading the other man's grasp. He seemed to have no regard for his safety; mockery dripped from his voice, unconcealed and unapologetic. His taunts were cruel, but Achilles, too used to respecting that authoritative tone, faltered and listened despite himself. "My clever little tongue has not done. Your obstinacy killed the boy, and you know it, else you would not be bent on preventing me from saying so. Now, I shall tell you other things which will be unpleasant to your ear. The gods have had enough. You may well be the greatest warrior in the world, but you are not more important than the entire Greek army, nor are you an Olympian. Hubris brings down the anger of the immortal ones, Achilles! You thought your dignity more important than the lives of your fellows; now you have paid for it with the life of him you loved best."

"I will avenge him," Achilles whispered, tensed, bursting with an agony that sought to break free.

"So you will," Odysseus agreed, "but not upon my flesh."

"No!" The golden-haired man paced furiously around the tent. "Upon Hector, who demonstrates his prowess by murdering young boys! Hector, who _took him from me!_"

"It is meet," Odysseus said reflectively, "to avenge the death of a kinsman. However, I will give you one last word of advice: beware, lest you lose also _her_ whom you love best."

And with that, the Ithacan swept through the tent flap and into the pale light of dawn. Achilles stared after him, his insides churning. But the words had not penetrated; they had fallen and glanced off, like rain on oiled cloth. Only anger remained, and the need to strike back at the one who had hurt him.

"_Hectooooooooorrr__!_"

His throat had grown raw with wrath and dust, no more so than his heart. His fingers on the reins itched to hold a sword. Soon blood would soothe the chapped skin, burned by this cursed foreign sun.

He did not think of the blood already staining his hands. The marks were still there, dried. No doubt the complementary marks remained on her face as well. Briseis, the foolish girl, had tried to stop him, begging for the life of her cousin. She had clung to him with her soft hands of a priestess, like a servant of Aphrodite holding him back, making him weak. He had spun and struck her in the face, walked on without looking back. He did not notice the blood until he leaped into the chariot and grabbed the reins. By then, it was too late, and he cared for only one thing.

"_Hectooooooorrrrrrr__!_"

And, at last, the gates of the city opened. The quarry had shown itself. Now it would die.

Achilles did not remember the battle very well, afterwards. Traces of his own voice, rude and sneering, echoed distantly. The movement of his hands and feet, the arc of sword and spear, the dance of the duel were vague shapes like shadows on the surface of water. A bright blankness seemed to blot out the memory, accompanied by a whispering as of the ghosts of Hades. Only the sense of purpose remained, single-minded and ruthless, and then the moment when it dissolved and Hector's dying breath whispered across his skin.

Yet the dissolution brought no peace. Hector's body lolled, lifeless clay, in the unforgiving dust, but the anger lingered, bereft now of an object on which to vent. Suddenly alone and conscious of himself once more, Achilles raised his eyes to where the king of Troy stood watching, safe behind the walls of his as yet untaken city. The sun shone serenely overhead, baking the bodies of the men, living and dead, as indiscriminately as the earth and desiccated tufts of vegetation on the plain. All was silent. There was nothing, nothing else which he might destroy. Nothing whose pain might heal his own pain at the loss of Patroclus.

He had only a corpse.

Stooping grimly, Achilles tied the feet of Hector's carcass to the back of his chariot. _Let them see the price of challenging Achilles! Their greatest warrior was as dust to me; I shall drag him among his brethren._ He thought suddenly of Briseis and Penelope, wine and blood but, snarling, tore the offending notions to shreds.

He drove three times around the walls of Troy, hauling the body of its most beloved son in the dirt. And now, finally, the anger ebbed away; but it did not leave peace in its wake. A cold, stark emptiness suffused him, as if it were he, and not Hector, who lay defiled on the plain. There was no warmth in his heart, only a terrible bleakness. Love had deserted him. The gods, Patroclus, Briseis, Odysseus had left him, repulsed by his pride and hatred. He was a shade already, drifting aimlessly through the dreary halls of hell. _Odysseus._

Achilles turned from the city and urged the horses more quickly. He sped towards the camp with the trophy of his triumph behind him, vindicated, victorious. Yet Achilles felt it was not his enemy, but his own heart which lay, abandoned, in the dust.

* * *


	5. A City of Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: _Troy_, _Iliad_, etc. do not belong to me.

* * *

  
_A City of Fire_

Dust-colored stone walls loomed high, shouldering away the horizon like eager warriors jostling to the fore of a battle. Odysseus was more circumspect, slipping along in their shadow, substituting cunning for force. For so long, he had stared at the outside of those walls, memorizing every cursed contour and irregularity. These immaculate obstacles, debarring him not only from victory but from home and wife, peace, tranquility, happiness! With one, repressed corner of his mind, he had longed furiously to level them. Now, from the inside, they looked no different from without; but now, their power had crumbled.

Torches splashed the night with a garish paint. Odysseus spared no thought for the aesthetic of the scene: the dance of slaughter, the song of conqueror and vanquished, the heavy perfume of blood found no foothold on his cold mind. Concentrated, detached, he scoured the city with the artisan's precision. He hunted.

The search led him through deserted streets, past houses with trails of flame escaping through their windows and doors. Women screamed, men and children died, weapons clashed and armor rang. An infant boy, bawling, tumbled from a roof to a swift death below. Odysseus pitied the thing, but felt no regret. These were the accepted processes of war. He took no further heed of the proceedings; that was work for others.

Odysseus had more important things to do than level the rank and file of the enemy. His honor demanded a king or a great warrior; somehow, he had to justify to himself and to his comrades his presence here, his rank as king of Ithaca, his reputation. He needed a conquest that would prove his worth. Hector was dead, Sarpedon, the best sons of Priam... all vanquished. What was left for him?

He had not wanted to fight in this war, and had gone only to protect his kingdom and family. But if he failed now to distinguish himself, the sacrifice would be undone. Odysseus had to demonstrate his prowess, or others would take advantage of perceived weaknesses – not today or tomorrow, but eventually, back in the fractured Greek lands. He and his wooden horse had given them Troy, yes, but he must take it with his own hands. Wiles were all very well, but he needed a show of strength.

He raged through the city alone, helping where it was needed, hurtling into the thickest whirl of battle, his mind burning with its red obsession. _Kleos_. Honor. _Timé_. Glory. Reputation. His name. They would say of him, "That is mighty Odysseus, whose spear and sword led the Achaeans at Troy – the king of Ithaca, great among men." And they would leave him and his country in peace.

His blade, a cruel, bronze extension of his flesh, spoke in whispers only he could hear. Sandaled feet led him up stone stairs. The sounds of fighting had receded somewhat. That was bad; he wanted more exposure to battle, not less.

He burst into a square, quiet, deserted, leveled beneath the invading horde. Quiet, save for the echo of a distant cry: "Achilles!"

The cry meant nothing to Odysseus. His eyes told him far more. There, in the green center of the square, lay a body, magnificent in death despite its awkwardly sprawled limbs. Blonde hair, limp and without luster; mighty arms, lifeless; the fleet feet, an arrow impaling one heel. Odysseus dropped to the ground and turned the body over, arranging it in a position of repose and dignity. His hand lingered briefly above the chest, where a heart had once beat, before drawing softly away.

Achilles' lips did not pout in death. Their corners lay drawn back, strangely inoffensive; the contrariness that had so angered Agamemnon was lacking now. A brief laugh forced its way through Odysseus' lips. To think that, of all the Greek host, _Achilles_ should lie here, defeated – cut down by a mere arrow!

"Ridiculous," he told himself, "but I tried to warn you, old friend."

He fell silent, startled by his own words. It was only a corpse. His fingers clenched spasmodically on his sword hilt. _This_ was real: bronze, blood, fire, earth, flesh. The spirit of Achilles was on its way to Hades already, no longer a matter for living men. They would meet again, in the endless halls of the underworld.

Would they? Odysseus' eyes clung to that arrow, embedded so impudently in the heel of the greatest warrior ever to have lived. It had taken only one man with a bow to kill the great Achilles; how much less must it take to put an end to Odysseus, a weaker fighter by far? At any moment, a sword might sever his spirit from its body. A rock, an arrow, fire, water, the plague, age . . . death lurked behind the thinnest of veils. Death? It was a horde of assassins, dogging the footsteps of every man, incapable of failure. Sooner or later, they would emerge to trample on the flickering spark concealed in mortal flesh. And who was to say Hades would truly receive them? Perhaps only oblivion waited, eternal darkness less than a breath away.

He squeezed his eyes shut and breathed deeply, angry and vaguely shocked at his own thoughts. He had not felt this muted panic since he was a young boy, in those awkward years when one learned that uncertainty ruled the world and no one had any control over fate—not one's parents or kings or even the gods, if they did exist. Such fear was for children; a man looked death in the face and grinned.

Odysseus looked down at the features of his friend and smiled sadly. He had hardly expected to outlive Achilles. But that, too, was beyond his control.

There were some things, however, that he _could_ influence. While he yet lived, there was honor to think of, and friendship.

"Sleep well, friend," he said softly, "Fear not for your name; I will avenge you."

The body lay still as a stone carving. Soon it would burn on the funeral pyre, and even the flesh would be gone. Odysseus gazed at it for one more long moment before springing lightly to his feet. He remembered the echo that had reached his ears upon entering the square. A woman's voice, full of despair, crying "Achilles!" He hazarded a guess at the direction and sprinted away, strength filling his limbs as if to make up for previous weaknesses.

He ran up a flight of stairs and along a street without meeting anyone. This part of the city appeared deserted, save for a few stragglers, Greek or Trojan, he did not know. Perhaps the warriors had swept through here already, or perhaps all the inhabitants had fled. One part of his mind scouted out the surroundings, keeping an immaculate record of his path. Another part hovered, unwilling to leave, above the lifeless corpse of Achilles. And in the back of his voice, a small voice repeated endlessly, exaltedly, _life, life, life..._

... "_Life!" Odysseus howled gleefully, "I have created LIFE!" He shook his hands triumphantly above his head and leaped madly about the room. _

"_I may have had something to do with it as well," Penelope remarked wryly from her habitual seat by the window. _

"_What foolishness! Everyone knows a man does the real work in creating children," Odysseus laughed, stooping to give his pregnant wife a chaste kiss. _

"_Beware, my husband!" Penelope said, a twinkle in her eye, "I might decide to spare you that particular work in the future!" She laughed as a look of horror crossed Odysseus' face. He knelt before her, taking her white hands in his brown ones. _

"_And what can I do to reclaim your, er, favors?" A half-smile hovered about his lips._

_Her blue eyes held his gaze until he felt he was staring down into the depths of a sea more profound than any that existed on the earth. So deep, and yet not dark; brightness infused their every glance, sunshine piercing through endless waves. _

"_Never leave me," she said, and he knew she did not mean it in a physical sense. _

"_My heart is yours forever," he answered, levity slipping away. _

_But she only repeated, as if in desperation, and yet with a voice so calm it chilled him, "Never leave me..."_

... "Leave me!" a woman sobbed.

Odysseus halted, pressing his back to a wall. He was at a cross-roads, and the voice had come from around the corner, to his right. The light was very weak here; only a faint, lurid reflection of distant fires illuminated the night.

"I can't go... I can't... I can't...."

Odysseus peered around the corner. Two figures there, in the middle of the road, one obviously female and the other, he guessed, a man.

"Come, Briseis—it's no use—"

_Briseis_. He had not recognized her voice, having heard it only once, within Achilles' tent. He could not tell who her companion was, but she did not seem pleased with him. Was he Greek? Or one of her own people? But then why would she be resisting?

"We must go, Briseis! Before they find us. Come to the passage—"

"Dead," Briseis moaned, "Dead—you killed him, Paris! I hate you—men—all men! Even you, my cowardly, womanly cousin, even you do nothing but kill!"

Odysseus missed the reply in his surprise. _Paris!_ Opportunity bloomed before his eyes like dry wood going up in flames. Paris had killed Achilles. Paris had started the war. Paris had dishonored his host, shamed his people, dragged thousands of Greeks from their homes, and now he was fleeing, a coward until the end. Paris, the second son of Priam. What better man could he kill?

"Briseis, we don't have time..."

No time. One stroke could right so many wrongs. Odysseus did not have his spear, but there were other ways.

Tension fastened cruel claws on his shoulders. He crouched, ready to leap around the corner. The night seemed to pause; his nerves screamed in his ears. His limbs felt heavy and loose all at once. Everything depended on this moment, on this, the most important stroke of his life.

He bounded around the corner into the street.

"Paris!" His voice tore out of his throat like a bull's bellow.

Two figures whirled to face him. He caught only a glimpse of their faces before his sword left his hand, hurtling like a bronze bolt of lightning through the dark air. There was a thunk, followed by a gurgling, and one of the forms fell heavily to the ground.

Then the frenzy disappeared from the night, as if a cold wind had blown away the smoky heat. His heart grew suddenly calm. Briseis stood frozen, staring at him, and he could see by her face that she knew him.

He advanced slowly, but she showed no sign of fear. Her face was mask-like, glazed with old tears. She stood with clenched hands, rigid, her robe stained and tattered, and yet looked no less a noble. It seemed to him he glimpsed traces of his wife in her fierce composure.

He spared a glance for Paris. The man was dead. Achilles was avenged, the theft of Helen punished, his glory secured, the war over. It was finished. He could go home. He wanted to shake his head; it had happened too quickly, after so much time.

Odysseus turned back to Briseis. She had not spoken, but regarded him silently, with an indifference he could tell was false.

"Come," he said gently, echoing the words of her dead cousin, "there is nothing for you here. They are both dead. Come with me. I will send you to my wife; she will care for you."

She did not protest when he took her hand and led her away. His task was complete; he could return to his ships, leave tomorrow if he so chose. A great weight lifted from his soul, and he felt he had grown wings. The night held no more terrors; all the barriers were gone, the pathways open, the sea waiting.

He walked through the burning city, and a half-smiled tugged at his lips.

* * *


End file.
